If You Only Knew(85)

I pause. “Oh. Thank you.” I’m wearing one of the outfits from yesterday’s spree—a red sheath dress that cost more than my first car. High, strappy metallic heels. The makeup. I also had my hair cut and highlighted and blown out.

He just looks at me for a second, then leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Nice to see you when you’re not covered in vomit.”

I smile, though I’m twisting my hands. “I get that a lot.”

“Show me around. I’ll probably never see a hotel suite like this again, so I want to drink it in.” There’s that smile that makes his eyes almost disappear into dark little crescents.

“Gus,” I say, “I’m... Just to make sure we’re clear, I’m not...you know. Coming on to you.”

“I know. I’m not that lucky. Where does this stairway go to?”

“The rooftop deck. All mine. And yours.”

We go up to admire it. “Gorgeous. So. I’m starving. Where are we eating?”

Because I chickened out last night and stayed in the hotel, I booked a reservation at one of the swanky places my sister recommended. We walk down the street, my heels occasionally catching on the cobblestones, until Gus takes my arm.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m trying a new vibe.”

“You look beautiful,” he says. “But you always did.”

He’s wearing a white dress shirt and jeans, black Converse high-tops. This makes him look much more famous and sophisticated than I do. I should just wear a sign that says Not From Here and Trying Too Hard.

“Oh, my God, I think that’s Gwyneth Paltrow,” someone says, and I turn to look.

“Where?” I whisper.

Gus laughs. “She was talking about you, Rachel.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

For some reason, this makes me feel a lot more confident. That, and Gus’s hand on my arm. I’ve known him for longer than I’ve known Adam, and it dawns on me that I’ve really, really missed having him as a friend these past four years.

“Is this it?” He stops outside a restaurant.

“It is.”

The maître d’ looks us up and down, then crosses something off on his list. “This way, please,” he says, and leads us to a huge booth in the back of the restaurant. It’s a fantastic table. I know this because Robert Freakin’ De Niro is in the booth next to us, talking animatedly to his companion. The actor looks up as we’re being seated and gives a slight nod.

“Robert De Niro is sitting next to us, Gwyneth,” Gus says in a low voice.

“I’m trying not to wet myself with excitement,” I murmur back. “It’s harder after having the triplets.”

He laughs.

Gosh, I like him. I haven’t been around a man I liked this much in what seems like a thousand years.

The art department at Celery Stalk was one big work space. I shared a massive desk with another woman, Liara, a tattooed and pierced lesbian who talked nonstop and educated me quite a bit about the wonders of her love life. My participation in the conversation wasn’t really necessary. Liara was outgoing and fun and well liked... I was the workhorse, sort of.

Gus always asked me to work on his projects. He was—is—the concept guy. I wasn’t flashy, and I wasn’t full of bubbly personality like Liara, but I did good work, and Gus always appreciated it.

I never really got the impression he liked me until that ill-timed date request, and by then, it was too late.

We order a bottle of wine and talk, first about workmates, then about Gus, whose live-in girlfriend left him last year.

“Did you see it coming?” I ask.

He looks at me a long minute. “Yes. I couldn’t tell if we should’ve tried harder or broken up earlier. Either way, it was tough.”

“I’m sorry.” And I am. I can’t imagine someone leaving Gus, quite frankly.

He shrugs. “Well, I recovered. I always do. I thought about throwing myself in front of a train, but...”

“Anna Karenina did that. No one likes a copycat.”

“I know,” he says. “Besides, it’s so nineteenth century. So I just listened to a lot of Beck and ate ice cream instead.”

“Beck? Really? The train might’ve been less painful.”

Another laugh, loud and unabashed.

Our dinners come, and we dig in. “Oh, my God,” Gus says. “This may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten or seen anyone eat.”

“It should be,” I concur. “Bobby De Niro eats here.”

“Oh, we’re already on nicknames with him, are we?”

“Well, we’re sitting next to him. I feel it’s only right.”

Gus’s smile makes my stomach tingle. I drop my eyes.

The Old Rachel would never have had the guts to ask a cute guy to dinner, let alone engage in snappy dialogue. She never would’ve worn this dress. The New Rachel would only have done this out of spite.

I don’t feel any spite right now. I just feel...happy.

It’s been a while.

“So tell me the truth,” Gus says, putting down his fork. His plate is clean, as is mine. “Am I here because you want to make your husband mad? Because I gather that this weekend is about him, sort of.”